


the world's not forgiving (of everyone's fears)

by whyyesitscar



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-05
Updated: 2016-03-05
Packaged: 2018-05-24 20:20:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6165574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whyyesitscar/pseuds/whyyesitscar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clarke and Lexa's last moments with each other, told in three vignettes. Canon compliant with 3x07.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the world's not forgiving (of everyone's fears)

**Author's Note:**

> listen, i didn't hate the episode at all but that doesn't mean i don't have to deal with it. "let's be still" came on at work and i almost started crying so i wrote this instead. (my apologies).
> 
> songs, in order (all by the head and the heart):
> 
> i. these days are numbered  
> ii. let's be still  
> iii. gone

_there’s always hope, hope in death._  
_it brands these bonds, refines the rest._  
_but these days are numbered; this life, absolute._  
_i need this faith to keep me walkin’,  
_ _to keep me alive._

**i.**

This is the last time you’ll see Clarke. You know this even before she comes to tell you that she’s leaving. It terrifies you not because you’ll miss her (you will) or cry for her (you will) or yearn for her (you will, you will, you will), but because you wonder if she’d bother to show up at all. Your breath rattles at the thought that your last memory of Clarke might only exist in empty promises and wisps of hope. Your shaking fingers run through your hair, untangling your braids, as you wish that Clarke won’t leave you the way you had her. _Clarke is not vengeful_ , you reason. _She is still hurt_ , you answer yourself, and there is the fear.

Yet Clarke is hurt in much the way that you are hurt, in the way that drives you to seek solace rather than retribution. Clarke is a healer and when you’re with her, you want to be one too. But the world demands too much blood to heal, and so you live in scabs.

Clarke bids you goodbye and you are the Commander; you must return the favor. You are Trikru and she is Skaikru and in an hour, just being with you will sentence her to death. But she grasps your arm and she is so gentle and so kind, and you pause. You find that you suddenly, desperately don’t want her to leave.

 _May we meet again,_ she says, and you know you won’t, so you let her stay. Clarke kisses you and she kisses you and you are not the Commander anymore.

/

 _…but the sun’ll still be coming up soon._  
_the world’s just spinning a little too fast;_  
_if things don’t slow down soon, we might not last.  
_ _so just for the moment, let’s be still._

**ii.**

“Was it Costia?” Clarke whispers as she draws her fingers down your tattoos again. You flutter your eyes closed whenever she circles a sphere. You are feeling too many things and so you must try to feel nothing, but how can you when nothing touches you so softly?

“The eighth Nightblood,” Clarke continues. “It was Costia, wasn’t it?” You close your eyes again only this time you hardly feel the trace of her hand.

“Clarke…”you whisper.

She kisses your shoulder and whispers back. “Okay. Okay, it’s okay.” The furs ruffle as she slides closer to you, wrapping an arm around your waist. She combs her fingers through your hair, down your back, across your neck, and you’re certain that sensation was invented just for the two of you; that no one before you has ever touched and no one after you ever will.

(The tears, though—they will endure.)

“What are you thinking?”

You thread your fingers through Clarke’s and take a deep breath, hoping to unclog your throat. “I am—”

The words get stuck anyway but they don’t need to be finished.

You are.

Clarke tries again. “What are you feeling?”

You smile a little, hoping that she is peering over your shoulder to see it. “What am I not?” you reply.

If Clarke had asked the question, you would have answered. You have always given her the weakest parts of yourself in the hope they might become strong.

/ 

 _gone are the days when the wind would brush my face;_  
_gone are the days when you’re the wind. and  
_ _gone are the days when my heavy heart is worn on my sleeve._

**iii.**

You are not Clarke Griffin anymore. You were never Wanheda, but you definitely aren’t Clarke Griffin. How can you be Skaikru when Trikru has fallen; how can you be an ambassador without a commander to champion? What is a head without its heart, and where has your heart gone?

Titus carries her to a room filled with silks and linens and sheets whose fabrics you don’t have names for. Trigedasleng doesn’t have as many words as English but it has words for these sheets, and Lexa will never get to tell you any of them.

Her blood is ugly and dark and you hate it. You wish you could wipe it away and Lexa would roll her eyes; she would flinch away from your wet cloth and you would just press harder because she can take it. She would roll her eyes again and mumble a thank you and you would say _you’re welcome, Lexa_ , and she would finally smile.

You would tell her that you love her and she would say it back.

Instead, Titus dips a rag in a bowl of water and wrings it out, dabbing it across her face and any part of her skin stained charcoal. You want to punch him but you’re so _tired_.

“Is she—” You choke on your words and Titus finally looks at you with weary red eyes and a face that will never stop drooping. “I know you believe in reincarnation,” you start again, “but what about the afterlife? Do you—I need—”

Titus takes pity on you. “The Commander never dies,” he says, bringing your tearful stuttering to an end.

“But what about _Lexa_?” you rasp.

Titus sighs and hands you the rag. He clasps your shoulder as he leaves the room.

When he returns at dawn, you have found your answer.


End file.
